[ficlet] After the Fact: Zabuza/Haku
After the Fact
Zabuza/Haku
Post the Bridge Arc, which is technically possible and just barely keeps this from being AU. So technically this is a death-fic, somewhat cynical, but mostly of the romantic variety. Halloweenish-romantic, I think.
The way life is after death: things suck.
423 words
It’s not even about skin anymore, really.
Before, his heart would soar and fumble if Zabuza-san even barked, which was the only way Zabuza-san ever laughed around him, the only way Zabuza-san ever laughed without hatred or anger.
He’d muse, between the sheets, sunrise and sunset when they were not hunting, and wonder what it would feel like to feel Zabuza-san’s hand against his cheek, neck, his lips. That had been the limit of his illicit daydreams. He’d been young. He knows that now.
It’s cold, wherever he is, and dark. Nothing smells, and it’s always silent. Haku has been through many horrors, sometimes at the center, usually on the periphery, so the quiet dread that assails him now, tasteless and empty, doesn’t surprise him.
He’s expected death, but he never expected to die so early, to never find security, freedom, to never know if Zabuza-san…
He’s not surprised. He’s not that young.
Years might’ve passed him, decades or minutes, and he wouldn’t have realized-he can’t remember his own face anymore. What he looked like. He can still remember his name, the Leaf genin’s voice, but holes in his memory appear suddenly, like the holes moths leave in clothes. He doesn’t see them come and he doesn’t see them go, but he can wiggle his finger inside where the memory of something used to be.
Skin’s not important anymore-not flesh, or even warmth. He doesn’t need his body, his life back-he gave it away freely.
Now, Haku just wants to remember Zabuza-san’s face. How he smelled, spoke, threatened and scowled, watching Haku too closely sometimes, too harsh and intense, suspicious.
He’d loved that. He can remember that he loved it, even if he can’t remember it.
There aren’t too many things he regrets not saying, not doing, since Zabuza-san seemed to know everything that went through his head, since Haku’s family was dead and he didn’t hate his village for trying to kill him, didn’t hate anyone, and only loved one.
His life, as he’d lived it, had been complete. He’d never expected to live long. Not really.
All he wants now are the pieces he’s supposed to have in death, the memories and dreams, the fragile abstract pieces he’s supposed to get to keep instead of fading away, in bits and starts and--
Someone grabs his hand. Too hard, painful. As if they’re angry or scared or both, and they’re going to keep him or hurt him or both.
And he knows.
And he doesn’t need anything. Not anymore.
***
Dying is a very dull, dreary affair. And my advice to you is to have nothing whatever to do with it.
--W. Somerset Maugham.
Zabuza/Haku
Post the Bridge Arc, which is technically possible and just barely keeps this from being AU. So technically this is a death-fic, somewhat cynical, but mostly of the romantic variety. Halloweenish-romantic, I think.
The way life is after death: things suck.
423 words
It’s not even about skin anymore, really.
Before, his heart would soar and fumble if Zabuza-san even barked, which was the only way Zabuza-san ever laughed around him, the only way Zabuza-san ever laughed without hatred or anger.
He’d muse, between the sheets, sunrise and sunset when they were not hunting, and wonder what it would feel like to feel Zabuza-san’s hand against his cheek, neck, his lips. That had been the limit of his illicit daydreams. He’d been young. He knows that now.
It’s cold, wherever he is, and dark. Nothing smells, and it’s always silent. Haku has been through many horrors, sometimes at the center, usually on the periphery, so the quiet dread that assails him now, tasteless and empty, doesn’t surprise him.
He’s expected death, but he never expected to die so early, to never find security, freedom, to never know if Zabuza-san…
He’s not surprised. He’s not that young.
Years might’ve passed him, decades or minutes, and he wouldn’t have realized-he can’t remember his own face anymore. What he looked like. He can still remember his name, the Leaf genin’s voice, but holes in his memory appear suddenly, like the holes moths leave in clothes. He doesn’t see them come and he doesn’t see them go, but he can wiggle his finger inside where the memory of something used to be.
Skin’s not important anymore-not flesh, or even warmth. He doesn’t need his body, his life back-he gave it away freely.
Now, Haku just wants to remember Zabuza-san’s face. How he smelled, spoke, threatened and scowled, watching Haku too closely sometimes, too harsh and intense, suspicious.
He’d loved that. He can remember that he loved it, even if he can’t remember it.
There aren’t too many things he regrets not saying, not doing, since Zabuza-san seemed to know everything that went through his head, since Haku’s family was dead and he didn’t hate his village for trying to kill him, didn’t hate anyone, and only loved one.
His life, as he’d lived it, had been complete. He’d never expected to live long. Not really.
All he wants now are the pieces he’s supposed to have in death, the memories and dreams, the fragile abstract pieces he’s supposed to get to keep instead of fading away, in bits and starts and--
Someone grabs his hand. Too hard, painful. As if they’re angry or scared or both, and they’re going to keep him or hurt him or both.
And he knows.
And he doesn’t need anything. Not anymore.
***
Dying is a very dull, dreary affair. And my advice to you is to have nothing whatever to do with it.
--W. Somerset Maugham.